O curséd spite, That ever I was born to set it right!

Of the myriad things that seem wrong with the world
When we are born into it, it is very tricky to see
Which of those wrongs we are meant to right.
There are those who would attempt to fix
Everything around them, to pick up every fallen twig
To cure the illness of the world, its diseases, its tragedies
But that fixing is never ending. . .
Not to mention a little grating
When you’re the one being fixed.
But things do fall down and maybe
Everyone has one thing
That they’re born to set right and our lives
Are simply a search for what that thing is.

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